


Lovers and Liars

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, HP: EWE, Humor, Magic, Post-Hogwarts, Remix, Romance, Spells & Enchantments, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 19:45:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11812929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”  Hermione is determined never to make the same mistake again that she’d made once with Draco Malfoy.  When he waltzes back into her life after a year’s absence, her resolve is put to the test.Written for Round 8 of the Dramione Couples Remix.  My chosen couple: Beatrice and Benedick, from Shakespeare's peerless romantic comedy, "Much Ado About Nothing."





	1. Chapter 1

Saturday afternoon  
18 July 2009  
Glastonbury  
  
  
Doing a stock check was never fun in the best of circumstances. Doing it on a steamy Saturday afternoon after a particularly trying work week and the sudden, unfortunate demise of the air cooler made the task all the more tedious and unpleasant. 

Still, Hermione Granger was nothing if not meticulous. She was also unfailingly responsible (if a bit OCD at times, as certain individuals were quick to remind her – one individual, especially), and skiving off this requisite chore was simply not in her.

Damn that bloody air cooler. She had inherited it along with other of the shop’s contents when the purchase had been made three years earlier. The previous owner had been very careful to gloss over its age (ancient, as air coolers go) and its effectiveness (spotty at best), smelling Hermione’s naiveté as a first-time shop owner. The selling price had been such a steal that one air cooler unit more or less hadn’t seemed a very big deal, certainly not enough of a worry to be a stumbling block. It could always be replaced with something better. Or so her business partner had reassured her.

But really, what did _he_ know about such matters, anyway? That was the question she ought to have asked herself at the time. She’d certainly thought about it enough since then. Completely untutored in the ways of Muggle commerce, not to mention machinery, he’d made one good contribution: the idea to locate their shop in this artsy, New Age-y town where a sprinkling of other magical establishments mingled with their Muggle neighbours. What better strategy than to hide in plain sight and plumb the gullible public’s hunger for all things witchy? And the strategy had proven sensible; they’d done extremely well, while remaining protected from exposure. A visitor to Glastonbury would be hard pressed to sort the shops with wizarding owners from the rest. The whole place was humming with a steady undercurrent of creativity and magic, some of it real and some simply imagined and wished for. It was easy enough to blend in, especially when folk around you, the wannabe witches and wizards, were so blatantly flaunting their “craft.” The genuine article was invariably far more discreet.

As Hermione had always been. Which is the reason she’d essentially retired her wand during business hours, never allowing any problems to be fixed with magic that could be dealt with the Muggle way. Of course, that meant digging into profits to pay necessary operating expenses, something her partner apparently had no genuine inclination to do, blocking her every time she raised the question of buying a real air conditioning unit that would provide cooling central air for the whole shop. Never mind the fact that much of their merchandise was delicate or in some cases, volatile, and had very particular storage requirements. There was also the comfort of their customers to consider. The tourist trade was huge, particularly in the summertime. Nevertheless, she’d been left holding the proverbial bag and dealing with the summer heat, as he’d opted to remain a silent partner, spending the bulk of each week in London and only coming to Glastonbury at the occasional weekend. 

That had changed when their relationship had changed, something Hermione now regretted every day when one small thing or another flitted into her consciousness, reminding her of him and what had transpired between them. Two years ago, he’d gradually started coming round during the week as well, staying longer and longer until he was in Glastonbury virtually all the time. Her flat fast became theirs, his clothes conveniently left in her closet and his toothbrush in her bathroom.

Which was the reason, she speculated, in the many times she’d gone over what had happened between them and why their relationship had failed so utterly, that before the bristles on his toothbrush had even dried properly, he’d taken himself and it and all his things away, with the excuse that things had been moving too fast and he wasn’t “ready.” As if she’d asked him to leave a few of his things at her place! (Well, in point of fact, she had, but honestly, it made perfect sense, didn’t it? She wasn’t a fan of sharing a toothbrush – yuck! – and after all, he was there almost all the time.)

Still, what singular cowardice! And to break it off the way he had, too. It was the classic, lipstick-on-the-collar thing followed by too-earnest denials and finally an admission of guilt. Couldn’t he have been more creative, at least? Why couldn’t he have grown a pair and been honest with her? No, he had to make sure she’d caught him seeing others, and then offered the rubbish excuse that technically, he really hadn’t been cheating as they hadn’t ever declared exclusivity in so many words, and – the icing on the cake! – if he still felt the need to see other women, surely it must mean he wasn’t ready to commit to just one. Her. It was best all round, he reassured her, that they part amicably. He’d sell his half interest in the shop to her and she’d never have to see him again. 

What hurt most was the still-raw awareness that her perception of what they’d shared was so radically different to his, apparently. She still couldn’t fathom how she could have misread the signals so thoroughly. Either he was an incredibly skilled actor (read full-of-shit wanker) or his fear of commitment ran far deeper than she ever could have guessed. Whichever the case was, the result was the same: what had been, to her mind, a really promising relationship had ended in the toilet, her heart shattered as he swanned off to new and brighter horizons. Well, one thing he’d said was true, at least: she’d never have to see him again in this lifetime or, hopefully, in any other. 

That had been the case for the past year. There had been only scant news of him initially, just that he’d left the country and was travelling on the Continent, landing finally in Paris; then nothing. 

Until now.

The owl message from Luna lay next to the register, fluttering lightly in the occasional bursts of tepid air issuing from the crotchety air cooler. 

“Hello Hermione,” she had written. “Hope you are well. I have some news: Draco Malfoy is back. I saw him last night in Diagon Alley. I’m sure he won’t be bothering you, but I thought you’d want to know.”

Hence, the stock check that should have taken no more than half an hour was dragging on for three times that, and she still wasn’t done. The heat was an annoyance, yes, but far worse was the fact that this knowledge was still managing to shake her up and muddle her normally clear, rational brain a full year after the break-up.

At least there were still one hundred and thirty six miles of countryside separating them. And she’d ward the shop and her flat, not that he’d have the nerve to turn up after what he’d done… would he?

Gritting her teeth, Hermione dragged her attention back to the list of stock items needing replenishing. Draco Malfoy would never worm his way into her thoughts, much less her heart, ever again.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Wednesday morning  
22 July  
  
  
That phrase about “famous last words” leapt to mind several days later, along with the urge to kick herself.

Hermione had just arrived at the shop. As always when she approached from outside, she stopped to gaze at the forest-green awning and large display window with a small thrill of pride and excitement. Food for Thought was all hers, a business she’d built from the ground up, infused with lots of hard work, sweat, patience, and most of all, love. Part herbal apothecary and part bookshop, with a very specialised inventory, she’d been welcomed into the community and had slowly built a clientele from amongst the locals as well as the tourist trade. Her love of history informed many of the stock choices she made; if a client wished to purchase a particularly arcane substance whose use dated back several hundred years, she would do her best to find and stock it. If a customer wanted to replicate a healing compound used by tribal shamans in a remote part of the world, she would tap her sources and see if its ingredients could be had. The books on her shelves were rare and usually out of print, and all the more valuable for that, covering a wide range of subjects dealing with all aspects of the healing arts and natural, earth-based substances. There were even cookery books containing recipes for gastronomic pleasure as well as inner healing and physical wellbeing.

The shop was small, cosy, and yet airy and light-filled. Pots of colourful flowering plants adorned the display window. Natural-wood shelving lined the walls, and a generous pine display table held samples of herbs and spices in tins and packets, a white porcelain tea set, a variety of mortars and pestles, and a sampling of the newest books on offer. In the centre of the table, there was a hand-thrown clay vase, bright sky blue, filled with a generous bouquet of Hermione’s favourite wildflowers, handpicked. The floor, wide honey-pine planks knotted with age, was highly polished and dressed with a colourful Batik rug. Spices and flowers blended to lace the air with a pleasantly aromatic perfume that lingered. Altogether, the shop exuded tranquillity and calm, introspection, and healing. It was Hermione’s baby, and the smallest detail of its operation mattered as much as the largest. 

Unlocking the door, she let herself in and began her usual morning routine: open the register, put up a pot of orange spice tea, make sure everything was in its proper place, change the water in the flower vase, switch on the CD player. The Bill Douglas disc she’d left in it the other day was one of her favourites. Customers seemed to like it very much as well, given the number of times they asked her for information about the music. She would play it again today.

The post would be there soon, she noted, glancing at her watch. She’d been expecting a shipment of an especially rare floral compound from Bali, used by native people for centuries. It was one she’d read about with great excitement, because its properties, derived from the Frangipani flower, were alleged to be powerful healers.

The “Open” sign was in the door and now it only remained for the first customers to wander in. It was a lovely, bright morning, a fine day for strolling about the town. Surely it wouldn’t be long. 

Right on time, the postman arrived, bearing the much-anticipated parcel. Eagerly, Hermione tore open the wrapping and began to examine the literature accompanying the compound, which was tightly stoppered in a small, purple vial. 

“Bali, eh? What’ve you got there?”

Startled, Hermione’s head snapped up and she found herself looking her ex-lover in the eye. So much for “never.” Crap. How could she have been so careless? She’d warded her flat, but in her haste, she’d forgotten all about the shop. Setting the vial down, she laced her fingers together and gazed at him coolly.

“What are you doing here? Slumming?”

One eyebrow and a corner of Draco’s mouth lifted in a barely perceptible half smile. “Hardly,” he drawled. “The place actually looks decent. Better than decent.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Gosh, thanks. I’m overwhelmed. Answer the question, Malfoy.”

“Haven’t I? Yes, well, I’ve come to inspect the premises.” He smiled pleasantly, his cool, grey eyes betraying only amusement at the joke she didn’t yet understand.

“Inspect the…?” She began to laugh. “You’ve really lost the plot, Malfoy. You have no reason to ‘inspect the premises,’ as you put it. You have no interest in it anymore, remember? You sold your half to me.”

“Ah, yes. True enough. But I do own the building now. Which makes me –”

“My landlord.” Hermione’s voice was flat with disbelief.

“Clever girl. You’ve got it in one. Here are the papers to prove it, just in case you had any doubts.” He pulled out a sheaf of papers and laid them on the counter before her.

“When?” she asked faintly. This was becoming positively surreal.

“Beginning of May. Some time ago, I’d mentioned to old Braithwaite that I’d be interested in buying him out and he finally took me up on it. You wouldn't have known, because the essential information on the lease hasn't changed, just the fine print.”

“No doubt you made him an offer he couldn’t refuse,” Hermione muttered, tight-lipped.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing. Forget it. Well, get on with it then. Customers will be arriving soon. I’d rather not have them see you poking about as if you’re expecting to find something nasty.” Turning her back on him, Hermione busied herself with straightening the items on the shelf behind her.

A low chuckle was his only reply. She could hear him moving about, his footfalls causing the old wood flooring to creak. She could swear he was treading especially heavily in those spots, because of course he would remember very well exactly where they were. At last, just as the first customer arrived with a merry jingling of the bell above the door, he concluded his inspection. Passing the customer on his way out, he nodded pleasantly in Hermione’s direction.

“I’ll have a report for you tomorrow,” he told her over his shoulder, his tone annoyingly chipper. “Nothing serious, just a few little things here and there.”

Hermione could feel her face stiffen into a parody of a smile. “Fine.” _Fuck off._ Then, turning to the woman who was examining the items on the pine display table, she attempted something more genuine. “Welcome to Food for Thought. May I help you with anything?”

When she looked back, Malfoy had gone.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Not for long, however. As promised, there was an envelope shoved halfway under the door by ten o’clock the following morning. In it was a neatly printed list on a scroll of parchment.  
  
 _Ms. Granger,_ the note read. _Please see to it that the following conditions are corrected at your earliest convenience._

 _1\. Dusty books: Not a terrible problem yet, but I did notice a few of the volumes could do with a light dusting. We wouldn’t want it to get out of hand, would we?_  
_2\. Likewise the floor. Spotted a dust bunny beneath the shelving in the back of the shop. Tsk, Granger._  
_3\. The loo could use some attention as well. When was the last time you cleaned it?_  
  
“When was the last time…?” Hermione spluttered, incredulous. “ _What?_ That bathroom is spotless!”

Throwing down the parchment in disgust, she scanned the floor for the errant dust bunny. The floor was immaculate, its warm wood gleaming and not a dust bunny in sight. Well, until she got to the far end of the shop, where, beneath the bottom bookshelf, there was a tiny ball of dust her broom must have missed. Peeved, she plucked it up off the floor, flicking it into the wastebasket in the powder room.

Damn you, Draco Malfoy, she muttered, looking around the small room. She was angry with him, but also angry with herself for allowing him to put her through this rubbish. As expected, there was nothing whatsoever with which to find fault. The sink, toilet, and floor gleamed. A person could eat off the floor there. He was just messing her about because he could, no great surprise. 

When, at half past eleven, the bells above the door jingled and she spotted the familiar white-blond head, Hermione felt a grim smile pulling at her mouth. Obviously, he would try to needle her any way he could, given the power he now had over her as the owner of the premises. But by Merlin, she wouldn’t make it easy.

“Good morning, Granger,” he sang out cheerily. “And how are we this fine morning?” Glancing about the shop, he furrowed his brow in mock consternation. “What, no customers? Tsk. I should think you’d be doing much better than this by half eleven on such a beautiful morning.”

“ _We_ are just dandy, since you ask,” she replied. “And for your information, Malfoy, I’ve already had five customers. You just missed the last one, in fact. She was an American and she spent a pretty packet. Care to inspect today’s receipts and see for yourself?”

“No, no, not necessary.” Peering closely at a small, carved figurine on one of the shelves, he frowned and then straightened. “You’ve expanded the inventory in the last year, I see. Much interest in this sort of stuff, then?” He nodded towards the collection of figurines.

Hermione folded her arms defiantly. 

“They happen to be some of my best sellers, if you must know. Made by an Irish sculptor. They’re meant to represent the Fair Folk, the Sidhe. She does some of the Celtic gods and goddesses as well.” She sighed and shook her head. “You disappoint me, Malfoy. I’d have thought your aesthetic sensibilities were keener and more astute. Didn’t Paris rub off on you at all? The clientele love these. Not that I owe you any sort of accounting,” she added, her voice chilly. “As long as the rent is paid.”

“On time,” Draco added, with a wink. “None of this ‘could I just have a small extension’ rubbish. I remember –”

“What _I_ remember,” she cut in, “was _you_ being late with the rent on several occasions and old Braithwaite being extraordinarily patient and not cancelling our lease.”

“Yes, well, back then, I wasn’t accustomed to paying for anything, was I. Never really had to handle money. I’d always had all that sort of thing done for me. Anyway,” he sighed contentedly, “things are different now.”

“Now that you’re the one _collecting_ the rent, you mean,” she said acidly. “You won’t forget a single Knut, will you.”

“Come now, let’s not get testy, shall we? Ever so much more pleasant if we keep things cordial between us.” Reaching the door, Draco turned and gave the shop once final, sweeping glance. “Much tidier today, by the way. Good job.” Flashing her a final, unabashedly cheeky grin, he was gone.

Good job? _Ooohhhhh._ The scream of frustration that threatened lodged like a lump in Hermione’s throat instead of finding its full voice, nearly choking her. How dare he waltz back into her life after a year of no contact whatsoever and lord his new position over her this way! And why in Merlin’s name did he buy the building anyway? What possible reason could he have for wanting to acquire the very building where he’d once had half ownership of the shop with her? He’d _left_ her, for all the gods’ sake! Left her, left their business, the lot. He’d turned his back on her and everything they’d shared because what was evolving between them had become far too intense – there was something real there, something genuine and demanding of serious consideration – and he just couldn’t handle it. So he’d run.

Well, good riddance. She’d said it then, after crying herself to sleep for far too many nights, and it was no less true now. Hard to fathom they’d ever been together at all, much less that things had turned serious so quickly.

They’d certainly been an unlikely couple, even as business partners. Initially, that relationship had been all about what looked to be a very good investment for the silent partner – and then things had changed. In the beginning none of their friends could even believe that they were together; certainly, none of them expected it would last. The fact that it did for nearly a year astounded everyone. And then everything had fallen disastrously apart. His friends had been disappointed – they’d honestly been hopeful – but unsurprised. Hers – one in particular – were all that, but also angry and out for blood. Hermione had closed herself off from all of them, instead throwing herself into all the large and small details of running the shop and letting that carry her, like a numbing wave, through the days, weeks, and months following the break-up. 

A year later, she was finally feeling well and whole once again, the deep wound closed over with a protective barrier of scar tissue. So naturally, Malfoy just had to turn up _now_ and throw a spanner into the works. 

If she let him, that is. Because it all came down to that. But she wouldn’t let him. She’d learnt her lesson. Malfoy had taught her well. Relationships were for the small percentage who were extremely lucky, the much larger numbers of the perpetually foolish or gullible, those with very low expectations, or those willing to be their partner’s punching bag. She was none of those things. She’d stay single, thanks very much.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Saturday  
1 August  
  
  
Owl exchange between Blaise Zabini and Theo Nott:

Blaise: _Cheers, mate. Just wondering: have you spoken to Draco lately? He seems to have disappeared. Haven’t seen or heard from him for over two weeks. Last I knew, he was in Paris._

Theo, in response, two hours later: _Sorry, no. What's up?_

 

Taking up his quill to pen a reply, Blaise began pacing back and forth beside the desk in his study, considering what he would say. Just then, he heard a sudden rustling coming from the hearth. He jumped involuntarily and then let out a sigh of relief laced with a touch of embarrassment. A Floo call.

“Blaise!” Laughter. It was Theo. “Sorry I startled you, old cock. It’s just… you’ve got me a bit concerned now. Thought we should save time and just talk.”

Blaise moved closer to the fireplace, pulling up a chair. Settling himself, he leaned in nearer to where Theo’s head bobbed, surrounded by licks of green flame.

“Good idea.” He nodded, brows drawn. “Any thoughts?”

“Well, yeah, actually. One. You’ve reminded me of something,” Theo replied thoughtfully. “Just about two weeks ago, he said something that seemed a bit cryptic, but at the time, I didn’t think much of it. Reckoned it was just Malfoy being Malfoy – you know, enjoying leaving us guessing about his next moves.”

“What did he say, exactly?”

Theo hesitated, recalling. “Something about… what was it?... the hidden value of real estate. Yeah, that was it. Does that make any sense to you?”

 _The hidden value of real estate_. Hmm. “Can’t say that it does,” Blaise mused. “The only real estate he’s been involved with in the last few years was that shop he had with Granger. You know, the one in Glastonbury. But he’s been done with that for over a year now. Hang on, you don’t suppose…” His voice trailed off into thoughtful silence as he sat back in his chair, sudden, preposterous ideas springing to mind.

Theo was nowhere near the same page. He frowned, ripples of green flame curling about the edges of his face. “Suppose what? Exactly what is going on in that pea brain of yours, Zabini?”

Blaise grinned in response. The small epiphany he’d just had was perhaps not so small after all. Just maybe, he was on to something. 

“Just an idea, mind. But… what if he’s decided to go back to Glastonbury?”

Theo let out a derisive snort. “Hah. Got it all sussed, have you? Fuck no. He was done with all that. He told us so in no uncertain terms, as I recall. No way would he do something so bloody pointless and humiliating. She’d never have him back in a million years. And he knows it.”

Blaise smiled slyly and shook his head. “Yeah, he knows it. His rational mind knows it all too well. But the man does have feelings, despite what he puts about for popular consumption. And I think those feelings are still tied up in knots over Hermione Granger.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Theo was plainly sceptical.

Blaise shrugged. “Little things he says from time to time. A look he gets in his eyes once in a while. Pensive and… I don’t know… a bit lost, even. Regretful.”

“I don’t know, mate. That sounds pretty thin to me. More likely your imagination reading into things than reality. And even if you’re right, even if he has gone back to Glastonbury, to what end would he do that? Like I said, Granger would never take him back after the way he dumped her. So what purpose would being there serve for him?”

“That’s it, see? You’ve just put your finger on it. _Being_ there. Just being there, full stop. It’s all about that. I reckon he needs to be around her, however he can. He’ll never admit to it, of course. No point in asking him straight out. We need to be a bit more subtle. Do some digging of our own and see what we come up with. Tell you what, Theo,” Blaise concluded, a confident gleam in his eye. “I think a trip to Glastonbury is on the cards for us. The sooner the better. You in?”

His head beginning to fade now in the flames, Theo nodded, resigned. “Yeah, all right. If I must. I still think it’s a waste of time, though. He won’t be there.”

That, Blaise thought with some satisfaction as Theo disappeared from view, remained to be seen. He’d put money on this one.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Friday afternoon  
7 August  
  
  
It was nearly closing time after a particularly long and tiring day. There had been a flood of customers, and while this was never something Hermione would complain about ordinarily, she’d been on her feet almost constantly for hours without a break. Her feet ached and so did her back.

Crouching down wearily behind the register to retrieve a receipt that had fallen, she heard the bells over the door jingle raucously for the umpteenth time.

‘No!’ she groaned silently and slowly straightened. To her surprise, there were two very familiar faces grinning at her only inches away.

“Blaise! And Theo! What a surprise! What are you lot doing here?” she exclaimed with a tired but genuine smile, and then she arched a quizzical eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you just happened to be in the neighbourhood.”

They all laughed and Blaise shook his head. “No. Even we couldn’t pull off such a spectacular bit of obfuscation.”

“He means a lie,” Theo chimed in, chuckling. “Which of course you already knew, no doubt.”

Hermione nodded, laughing. “Right then. What _are_ you two doing here in Glastonbury?”

Might as well get straight to the point. Blaise cleared his throat and began. “We’re looking for Draco Malfoy, actually, and we wondered if you’d seen him at all in the last couple of weeks.”

There was a long pause, which became instantly awkward for all three of them. Hermione gazed down at her hands for a moment and then fixed her visitors with a steady look, her chin up defensively.

“Why are you looking for him?” she asked, her voice low and controlled, and then, “Is he in some sort of trouble?”

Interesting reaction, Blaise thought to himself. Encouraging too. If she truly detested him, she’d have responded differently.

“No. At least we don’t think so,” Theo replied hastily. “But we can’t seem to track him down and that was concerning. Last we heard, he was still abroad.”

“And you thought, for some bizarre reason, that _I_ would have some knowledge of his whereabouts,” Hermione muttered. “In Merlin’s name, why?”

Theo turned to Blaise with a triumphant “see, I told you so” expression. Blaise remained undeterred.

“You still haven’t said whether you’ve seen him, Hermione,” he said quietly, ignoring her question.

Now Hermione coloured, two pink spots burning high on her cheeks.

“Well, if you must know,” she admitted finally, “I have.” And now her expression turned angry. “In fact, since you ask, I’ve seen entirely too much of him. He’s bought this building, and he’s now my landlord, of all beastly things! Ever since he arrived, he’s made a real nuisance of himself. I wish he’d go find someone else to plague!”

Well, this was news with some teeth, at last. Blaise shot Theo a quick but rather pregnant look and then turned back to Hermione. 

“Well, er… thanks awfully, Hermione. We’ll be off, then. Don’t want to take up any more of your time, do we, Theo?” He gave Theo a nudge with his elbow. 

“No, that’s right, thanks very much. See you,” Theo murmured as he was shepherded briskly out the door by an insistent Blaise, leaving Hermione staring after them, confused.

They’d no sooner stepped out of the shop and down the street a couple of doors’ worth, when Blaise grabbed Theo’s arm. Now it was his turn to be triumphant.

“You see?” he hissed excitedly. “I told you he was here! And now we know what that weird remark of his meant. The ‘hidden value of real estate’ is all too obvious, isn’t it! He’s using his ownership of the building to get close to Granger! Right,” he muttered. “What we have to do now is actually find the man himself. There has to be a way to get him to admit the real reason he’s come back here.” 

“ _You_ said he’d never admit to a bloody thing,” Theo pointed out, hurrying to keep up with Blaise’s long strides.

“True. But like I said, we’re not going to ask him straight out, are we. We won’t have to. He’ll slip up, you’ll see. He’ll say something he doesn’t mean to, and then we’ll have him.” Blaise nodded serenely, full of newfound confidence. 

“Yeah, and then what, old cock?” Theo chortled. “Are you suggesting we play agony aunt and try to advise him on his love life, pathetic as it is? He won’t have it. You know him.”

Blaise kept walking, so Theo grabbed him by the shoulder, exasperated, stopping him mid-stride. “Look, we came because we wanted to know where he is. Well, now we know. I say let’s get the hell out of here.”

Blaise shrugged. “Go on, then, if you want to. I’m staying.”

His easy acceptance of Theo’s desire to leave stopped the latter dead in his tracks. 

“Don’t be quite so glad to see the back of me, yeah?” he said, feeling a bit cross all of a sudden. “I haven’t left yet.”

“Your call, mate,” Blaise replied cheerfully. “Stay if you fancy it, or go. In any case, I’m off.”

“Where to?” Theo couldn’t help being curious. 

“Check out the local hotels and such. See if I can track him down. Then find the nearest pub for our sort and have a pint. Granger will know where they are.”

“Amen to that.” A pint or two sounded good just then. Theo grinned, his decision to leave momentarily forgotten. “S’pose I’ll stick around a bit longer. Malfoy could even be using an alias. You might need my help.”

Blaise snickered, clapping his friend on the back. "You're a cheap date, Nott," he teased. "Just the thought of drink and you're game for anything."

“Piss off, Zabini!”

As the two of them disappeared around the bend in the road, Theo continued to grumble good-naturedly, but there was a grin on his face as well.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
8 August  
Saturday morning  
  
  
The knocking on his door was insistent and seemed to be growing louder, the sound of it setting Draco’s teeth on edge. Ignoring it had been useless. If he really wanted it to stop, he’d have to do more than merely pretend he wasn’t there.

“All right, all right, I’m coming! Hang on, for fuck’s sake!”

Just before he yanked the door open, he paused and then pushed aside the small peephole cover in the door. A brown eye peered back at him from the other side. 

“Open up, you plonker! It’s us!” a familiar voice informed him, laughing.

“Yeah, seriously, Malfoy!” a second equally familiar voice chimed in. 

The door in question was currently part of a suite of two rooms – a sitting room and a bedroom with an en-suite – in a local bed and breakfast establishment called The Covenstead. Hired by Draco for an indefinite period, the proprietors of the Covenstead were only too pleased to host the son of such a prominent member of Britain’s wizarding community. Even now, eleven years after the war, the name Malfoy still carried a good deal of weight, especially in certain circles. It hadn’t been difficult to find a place to stay while he decided what his plans, both short- and long-range, would be. The purchase of the building at number 24 Buttercup Lane had been first on his to-do list. Now all he had to do was work out exactly what he intended to do with it. Of course, there was no rush, no urgency. His downstairs tenant, Food For Thought, was doing quite nicely, even better (he had to concede) than when he’d sold his half of the business to his ex. A year earlier, Hermione had lived directly above the shop. The other upstairs tenant on that floor, a crusty old gent with a large, white handlebar moustache and an utterly bald head above the bushy eyebrows, kept to himself for the most part. The occasional small explosion that occurred, followed by a most colourful litany of antiquated swear words, was invariably the product of a spell gone wrong and the source of no end of frustration for the elderly spell caster. Draco still remembered how often he’d hear it late at night when he and Hermione would be curled up together in her bed. They’d had to stuff their fists in their mouths to keep from laughing out loud, imagining the old guy with his eyebrows charred and sooty at three in the morning, muttering to himself. Tenants in the flat above Arquette had not always found it so funny.

He wondered if Hermione still lived above the shop across from old Mr Arquette and if his magic were still just as volatile. No doubt, he'd find out the answers to both soon enough.

Now Draco pulled the door open and surveyed his two visitors with a raised eyebrow and a sigh.

“Right. How’d you lot find me, anyway? I thought I’d covered my tracks exceptionally well.”

“It was Zabini,” Theo piped up. “He called and said he couldn’t find you. He was worried, see.”

“ _We_ were worried,” Blaise corrected him. “Nobody had a clue where you were and all the usual places –” 

“And women,” Theo added.

“And women, yeah. They all turned up nothing. Dead ends, the lot. For all we knew, you’d gone to ground in Paris.”

Theo: “Thought you might be in trouble, didn’t we.”

Blaise: “And then it occurred to me that we might just find you here in Glastonbury.”

Draco’s raised eyebrow inched further upward and he gave his friends a look of scepticism mixed with irritation.

“Oh yes? And why is that, pray tell?”

“Cut the bullshit, Malfoy.” Blaise crossed his arms and sighed deeply. “You know why.”

“We saw her, y’know. Yesterday,” Theo added, determined to get his share of shock-value commentary in before Blaise stole the whole show. There was a certain pleasure in getting Draco Malfoy rattled, his _sang-froid_ shaken, if for no other reason than the rarity of such a thing happening at all.

“Her,” Draco echoed flatly. His voice conceded nothing.

“Yeah. _Her._ Granger. She’s looking good, Draco.” Blaise smiled lazily. He had Malfoy dead to rights now and everyone knew it. That impassive mask was one his friend had perfected over the years, and invariably, it hid something.

“ _Very_ good,” Theo chimed in, and then he peered further into the room. “Look, er… can we come in, then? Having a discussion in the doorway is getting old.”

Silently, Draco gestured for the two of them to come in and take a seat on the sofa, an early 19th-century piece with scrolled arms and a low, uncomfortable back. Blaise and Theo glanced around, barely containing their surprise at the decadence of the décor.

“The old Slytherin common room meets the Arabian Nights, yeah?” Blaise chuckled, glancing around.

“Bit over the top, I know,” Draco allowed, shrugging.

“Just a bit,” Theo snorted. And it was true. There were silks and tapestries in vivid primary colours everywhere, richly worked rugs covering the floor, and gilding on all the furniture. The walls were covered in a flaming red, textured wallpaper, and adorned with gilded mirrors, paintings, and sumptuous wall hangings. Through the open passageway, the bedroom was visible, and it was more of the same. “What’s this one called anyway, the Orgy Suite?”

“No orgies here,” Draco muttered, sitting down in a brocade-covered chair and folding his arms. 

“You’re losing your touch, Malfoy.” Blaise grinned. “Has Granger been up here yet?”

“Granger? Why?” The questions were muffled, and both Blaise and Theo had to strain to hear them.

“Because, my friend, I’ll wager you’re still in love with her, that’s why,” Blaise said firmly, getting to his feet and planting himself squarely in front of Draco. “Moreover, I’ll wager that’s the real reason you’re here in Glastonbury. Am I right?”

Draco glanced up at him, assuming an expression of barely contained incredulity. “Fuck’s sake, Zabini. _I_ broke up with _her_ , remember, mate? I’m not exactly pining away here.”

Blaise snickered and shook his head. “Oh no? I reckon what we have here is a classic example of cutting off your nose to spite your face, my friend. Textbook. You can’t even see it, can you! What an arse.”

At that, Draco was on his feet like a shot, abruptly ushering his friends in the direction of the door. 

“Sorry, you lot,” he said briskly. “Business before pleasure. Another time!”

As the door shut firmly behind them, Theo and Blaise looked at each other. Theo shrugged, but there was a decided gleam in Blaise’s eye.

“Methinks, Theo my friend, that Malfoy doth protest too much,” he said smoothly.

“What are you on about? He hardly said anything!” Theo protested as they walked down the hall toward the staircase.

“Precisely. He didn’t have to. It was at least as much what he _didn’t_ say as what he did.” Blaise laughed softly and began to whistle.

“Not to mention the looks on his face when you mentioned Granger,” Theo put in, thinking back. 

“Now you’re catching on, mate. You reckon he kicked us out because he really had something to do? I think not. We touched a nerve. A painful one, by the look of it. Question is, what to do about it.”

They’d just reached the foyer and now Theo stopped dead in his tracks. “Do? What d’you mean? What the hell can _we_ do? It’s none of our business if Malfoy wants to make a jackass of himself.”

“Oh ye of little faith…” Blaise shook his head mournfully and then gave Theo a wicked grin as he pulled open the door. “Leave it to me, mate. Just leave it to me.”  
  
  
  
  
  


TBC


	2. Chapter 2

The meeting was unorthodox, to be sure. The two former Slytherins had seen nothing of the ex-Ravenclaw and ex-Gryffindor in years, not since the war ended. Eleven years, nearly the whole of their twenties, had taken what little youthful naiveté remained once the war had finally come to an explosive close. There was a certain weathered cynicism on all their faces as they sat regarding each other over drinks.

Blaise Zabini, Theo Nott, Ginny Weasley Potter, and Luna Lovegood (soon to be Lovegood-Longbottom) sat around a table in The Scrying Glass, a pub newly opened in Diagon Alley. Two pints of ale, a glass of bubbly Prosecco and one of a rich, red Malbec stood in a circle, gleaming in the light of a single candle in the centre of the table. Beyond that warm, yellow glow, the pub was shrouded in semi-darkness, the only other lights pinpoint beacons like a scattering of stars from the many other candles.

Blaise raised his glass and nodded to the others. “Cheers!”

After the obligatory first swallow of their drinks had been taken, Ginny leaned forward, her chin cradled in the palm of her hand.

“Okay, Zabini. I’ll bite. Why did you call us down here?”

“He has news,” Luna murmured matter-of-factly. 

The other three turned their heads to regard her, two with surprise and the third with some scepticism. Luna merely smiled dreamily in response and nodded, inclining her head towards Blaise.

“As it happens,” he replied, setting down his glass, “Lovegood is right. We do have news, and we think it’s something you both will want to hear. It concerns Granger.”

“What about Hermione?” Ginny asked sharply, eyes narrowing. “Is she all right, then? Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

Theo took up the narrative, drawing out the story and keeping the two young women in suspense a little longer. “Not exactly. I mean, she’s okay.” He paused. “Physically, that is.” 

“What exactly do you mean, Nott?” Now Ginny was visibly upset. “What the hell are you on about?”

“I think possibly,” Luna interjected in a soft, unhurried voice, “he’s referring to her love life.”

“Or lack thereof.” Blaise spoke with the calm assurance of somebody with inside information he was willing to share, but only piecemeal and with excruciating slowness. “We were in Glastonbury a few days ago and we saw her.”

“ _And?_ ” Ginny was becoming noticeably impatient, the tips of her fingers drumming a series of staccato taps on the table’s surface. “No offense, but I don’t believe she’d talk about anything personal with you lot. Why should she?”

“She didn’t, actually. It was really more what was between the lines than what she actually _said._ ” Blaise leaned against the high back of the settle, taking a leisurely sip from his glass. He waited.

The reaction was swift in coming. “Between the lines,” Ginny repeated flatly. “Just what did she actually _say_ , Zabini? Between the lines or otherwise.”

“Well, see, we were there looking for Malfoy,” Theo put in.

Instantly, both girls sat up a bit straighter, all ears.

“Go on,” Ginny urged, brows drawn and lips pursed. A certain undeniable tension now hung over the proceedings. Everyone turned to look at Theo, who gulped uneasily.

“Right, well, we hadn’t heard a word from him in some time, and we were… you know… concerned. We thought… well, Blaise thought, really… that he’d likely be in Glastonbury.”

“And just why might that be?” Ginny said, her voice a quiet but sharp knife cutting the air. It was evident that protective hackles on her friend’s behalf were rising and wouldn’t be easily assuaged.

Blaise knew it was time to bite the proverbial bullet. “Because, Mrs. Potter, he is still in love with her.”

“Oh, is he? Is that so? And what makes you say that anyway? Was it the panicked exit from her flat, from the shop, and from her life? Or,” the ginger-haired witch continued scornfully, “could it have been the many women he flaunted on nights on the town? Or, I know… what about the ones he cheated on Hermione with?” She nodded, a caustic laugh escaping her. “Right, of course, how could I have been so thick? The signs of true love were so obvious!”

Luna reached out and gave Ginny’s hand a quick, restraining squeeze. “Gin, wait,” she said carefully. “I think we should at least hear them out.”

A tense moment passed and then Ginny nodded grudgingly. “All right,” she muttered, glancing across the table at Blaise. “This had better be good.”

“Well, first off, it was the way Granger reacted when we told her we were looking for Draco. Right away, she wanted to know if he were in some kind of trouble. It was obvious that she still cares.”

“Doesn’t prove a bloody thing.” After a sip of her wine, Ginny folded her arms across her chest and waited, one eyebrow cocked sceptically. 

“Not by itself, no. But couple that with the fact that Malfoy is now the owner of the building where the shop is located.” A slow, satisfied grin slid across Blaise’s face. “She is seriously brassed off about that. If she no longer cared, it wouldn’t matter. But his being there has really got under her skin.

“ _And_ ,” he added, “we have proof that Draco still cares as well. A lot. That’s why he bought the building. So he could be near her.”

“Sheer speculation,” Ginny sang out airily. “I don’t buy it.”

“My thought too,” Theo replied, taking a healthy slug of his ale. “At first. And then I saw his reaction when Blaise confronted him about Granger and the reason he’s in Glastonbury now. It was a classic case of denial, ending with him booting us out of his rooms.” Theo chuckled. “Took him about ten seconds, as I recall.”

Blaise let out a bark of laughter. “Less.”

“Okay,” Luna said after a moment. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that your theory is correct and they both still have feelings for each other. Somehow, they’d need to get past all the baggage and begin really talking to each other.”

“Not possible,” Ginny declared flatly. “Hermione won’t forgive Malfoy. Not ever. And she shouldn’t do.”

Blaise waved a hand dismissively. “Look, we’re not here to judge what happened _or_ anyone’s character. That’s for them to sort out."

“‘Anyone’s character’? You mean Malfoy’s,” Ginny retorted darkly. “Hermione wasn’t at fault in the least.”

“Right, then. Malfoy’s. Agreed. He was a right tosser. A real piece of shit.”

Ginny raised a glass in Blaise’s direction in a dubious salute. “That’s the first thing you’ve said that I agree completely with!”

Luna flashed her a warning look. “Ginny...”

“Yes, all right,” the redhead muttered, rolling her eyes. “Go on.”

Now Blaise leaned in, fixing the other three with an intense look fuelled by sudden inspiration. “I propose that we put them to the test.”

“Hang on. What sort of test?” Luna wanted to know.

“We plant the idea in their heads that their exes still fancy them and are absolutely pining away.” Blaise was now grinning broadly. On one level, the entire idea amused him no end as a sort of game or challenge. But it might just prove decisive as well, in reuniting his best friend with the woman he so obviously still adored. He felt fairly certain of Draco’s feelings; he knew his friend as well as he knew himself, and it was clear to him that Malfoy was still carrying a torch for Granger, though he was doing a damned good job of pretending otherwise. The purchase of the building cinched the suspicion Blaise had entertained for months. On Malfoy’s end, it wouldn’t be a lie. At least, not to anyone who knew him well.

Granger might be a different story, but again, Blaise’s gut told him the same was true for her. At least he hoped it was. Only one way to find out for sure.

“Well? What do you lot reckon? Are you game?” Blaise looked eagerly at everybody in turn, his gaze resting finally on Ginny and Luna. “Granger needs to overhear a conversation between you two. You’ll say you’ve heard from various sources that Malfoy still loves her and never stopped. Embellish it, if you like. Say you heard that he lived like a monk for ages in Paris, and even now, keeps to himself. Say that rumour has it he bought the building so he could be near her. I’m sure that bit’s actually true, though no doubt he’d deny it up and down. We’ll talk in Malfoy’s earshot about what we’ve heard from you ladies, that Hermione's still carrying a torch for him despite her apparent behaviour to the contrary. Never fear,” he reassured the other three. “We’ll make it very convincing. What do you say, everyone?” He laughed softly. “Are you up for a bit of a game?”

It was evident that Luna had been on board from the off, as was Theo. Surprisingly, it didn’t take long for Ginny to agree. She’d suspected for months that Hermione had never really got over Draco, much as she would protest to the contrary if pressed. And really, what harm could this little test possibly do, anyway? If they did still love each other, this bit of subterfuge could serve to bring them together. If either or both had no such residual feelings, no harm would be done unless one counted the temporary inflation of their egos.

Now, all four raised their glasses. 

“To… “ Blaise began and then paused, considering.

Ginny broke into a grin. It was evident she’d warmed to the idea. “To lovers and liars. What about that, then?”

“Lovers and liars!” Four glasses clinked together to formalise their pact and everyone laughed. Suddenly, things were looking very interesting. The game was afoot. It only remained to set the wheels in motion.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Saturday evening  
15 August  
  
  
In a belated celebration of Ginny’s 28th birthday four days earlier, a ladies-only gathering on this balmy Saturday night had been planned. Luna had Owled Hermione to ask if she’d help put the party together, and of course, Hermione had gladly agreed. It would be good to get out of Glastonbury, much as she liked living there, and get a change of scene. And a party with her best friends, some of whom she hadn’t seen in quite some time, would be a lovely way to spend this summer evening. She’d been missing them and the good times they’d always shared, beginning years earlier at school.

All together, five would attend; the gathering would be held in Luna and Neville’s back garden, replete with a wide variety of shrubs, shade trees, and lush flowerbeds in bloom, thanks to Neville’s gifted green thumb. The scent of the many floral varieties blended to create a unique and delicate perfume that hung invitingly on the warm evening air.

Myriad candles in hurricane glasses flickered softly from the tables that had been set up; fireflies winked and glowed in the deepening dark like tiny, incandescent fairies. Platters and bowls of food, a tall pitcher of chilled butterbeer, and bottles of wine and champagne made the feast, surrounded by vases of colourful blooms newly gathered from the garden. Neville had cast a Bugz-B-Gone spell to cloak the entire garden in an invisible, insect-proof tent and keep uninvited guests from plaguing everyone.

Hermione and Luna had been busy for the past twenty minutes, bringing out all the food and drink and setting it up. Just as they carried the last platters and bowls out, they could hear voices coming closer through the house.

“Padma! Lavender! It’s so good to see you!” Hermione exclaimed, setting down the bowl she held and throwing her arms around both girls. “I’m so glad you could come on such short notice!”

Lavender sighed dramatically. “No problem for me. I’ve got nobody taking up my Saturday nights these days. Nobody really interesting, that is!” she added with a laugh. 

“Oh, just the usual wankers, then?” Padma chortled. 

Lavender rolled her eyes and nodded. “No shortage of those, I’m afraid!” She glanced around quickly. “Where’s the guest of honour? Was this meant to be a surprise?”

Luna had just emerged from inside the house and smiled beatifically at the other three. “No. I mean, technically, yes, but I suspect she knows, somehow.”

“Somebody’s got a big mouth,” Padma said pointedly, grinning wickedly as everyone’s gaze turned expectantly towards Lavender.

“Don’t look at me, ladies! I haven’t spoken to Ginny in ages!” she protested weakly, but she laughed along with the rest because of course, it was true.

“It really doesn’t matter if she does," Hermione added. "We just didn’t want her getting underfoot and taking over. You know Ginny. She likes to run everything.”

“No, that’s you, Hermione!” Padma chimed in tartly, and everyone, including a blushing Hermione, laughed again. A round of butterbeers started the party off as the girls sat down and relaxed in the cool of the fragrant garden.

Five minutes later, the guest of honour arrived. Harry popped his head round the kitchen door just to say a quick hello as Ginny came through, but then he beat a hasty retreat, joining Neville for a trip over to the new pub in the Alley that had been getting good reviews. 

“See you later, girls!” he called cheerfully on his way out. “Don’t drink too much, Gin!” he added in a cheeky admonition to his wife.

“I plan to get roaring drunk, actually,” Ginny remarked matter-of-factly. “I’m the birthday girl and I’m allowed. So don’t _you _drink too much, Potter! One of us has to have a relatively clear head or we’ll likely splinch ourselves getting home!”__

“I don’t much fancy having bits and pieces of either of you in the back garden,” Neville called from inside the house.

“Okay, yes, go on, then! Off with you!” Ginny chuckled, shooing the two men away and firmly closing the kitchen door behind them. She turned back to face her friends with a wide, wicked smile. “Right! Who’s going to toast me first?”  
  
  


*

  
  
  
The party had been a big success. Three hours later, sated with both delicious food and potent drinks of several kinds, the girls sat, loose-limbed and comfortably lazy in their lawn chairs.

A rather delectable birthday cake had been mostly demolished, its remains slowly melting into a pool of whipped cream and strawberries in the steamy night air. 

“Gods, this cake is bloody _marvellous_ ,” Lavender announced, sticking a fork into the leftovers and spearing a large piece, which she rather unsteadily manoeuvred into her mouth. “Yum!”

“It is rather fantastic,” Ginny murmured, reaching over to slice off another hunk of it for herself. “What’s in it? Something…”

“Secret ingredient.” Hermione grinned. “My lips are sealed.”

She didn’t have to elaborate. It was fairly clear that the cake was baked in more ways than one, and who better or more logical than Hermione to be the source of that secret ingredient? An easy, relaxed silence fell over them now, as everyone digested and enjoyed the comfortable after-glow of the feast.

Eventually, Luna roused herself enough to remind everyone that gifts had yet to be given to the guest of honour. Dragging herself out of a comfortable semi-stupor, she leaned over and tapped Hermione on the shoulder. 

“Could you please fetch Ginny’s presents? I’m feeling just a bit dodgy!” 

“Presents? Did I hear presents?” Ginny giggled, her head lolling on the back of the chaise lounge on which she was stretched out.

“Okay, sure,” Hermione said agreeably, rising to her feet and making her way into the house

She had just reached the screen door leading from the kitchen to the garden and was about to push it open, arms full of wrapped gifts, when she stopped in her tracks. They were talking about Malfoy. And her.

“– I swear by Circe, it’s _true._ ” This was Luna. 

“Oh come on, I don’t believe it!” Ginny now, sounding convincingly sceptical.

“Everybody knows it’s true, Gin. _I_ heard from Susan Bones, who had it on good authority from Theo Nott, that he hasn’t been with anyone in _months_. All that time in Paris? Like a monk. Really. A _monk_.” 

Luna sounded far more animated than was usual for her. Hermione’s eyes widened and she stepped closer to the door, listening so hard that she nearly stopped breathing.

“Theo would know, I suppose, if anyone would,” Ginny said slowly. “But why haven’t you told Hermione?”

“Because I didn’t think she’d believe me,” Luna replied, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Especially because of the reason.”

“What’s the reason?” Padma edged closer, her voice betraying her excitement at this new bit of gossip that was striking so close to home.

“The reason is…” Luna paused, looking around at the others, and Hermione’s heart leapt into her throat, lodging itself there. “… he still loves her! That’s what Theo said!”

Now Hermione’s heart threatened to choke her completely. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the house; putting a hand to her mouth, she took a step back, her mind reeling.

But there was more. 

“Do you suppose,” Ginny wondered now, “that’s the reason he bought that building? The one Hermione’s shop is in?”

“He wants to be close to her!” Lavender clapped her hands together in triumph as a truth suddenly broke, the proverbial light bulb over one’s head. “Gods, it’s so obvious!”

Padma nodded avidly. “She’s been complaining about it, but who knows… maybe the truth is, she’s secretly glad! Ooh, I bet she is!”

 _No no no no no!_ Hermione shook her head vehemently. That was absolutely not true! Not at all! Glad? Was Padma joking? After what Malfoy had done, after the shabby way he’d treated her? Seriously, what a completely ridiculous and totally ludicrous notion! She was about to march back into the garden and set her friends straight when their words stopped her once again.

“Draco’s really got it bad for her, according to Theo. He was in Glastonbury pretty recently, so he should know. Draco must have said something that tipped Theo off. No idea what. But Susan said that Theo was very sure about this. And he’s one of Malfoy’s best friends.” Luna sounded very matter-of-fact.

“That’s true.” Ginny nodded. “You know, Padma, I think you might be on to something as well. Hermione has been complaining almost nonstop about Malfoy being her landlord, being in and out of the shop almost every day, hovering over her. But she doesn’t actually have to put up with all that, not if she really doesn’t want to. There’s no law that says a landlord has the right to plant himself in the premises and make a nuisance of himself. I mean, as far as I know, if Hermione pays her rent and keeps the place up properly, she has the right to carry on with her business without any interference from anyone, including Draco. So… why hasn’t she put her foot down?” Ginny glanced around at the other three girls with a sly grin. “I bet it’s what Padma said. I bet she’s secretly glad to have him back in her life – even in this annoying way – no matter what she says!”

Hermione couldn’t believe her ears. These were her best friends in the whole world, the people who would always have her back. Or so she’d thought. How could they so completely misinterpret the situation, and furthermore, why in the world would they actually sound gleeful about the prospect of Malfoy still – she forced herself to articulate the unbelievable thought – still being in love with her? Surely that wasn’t true in any case! It couldn’t be.

Could it?

And even if it were true, she certainly didn’t feel the same. Oh no.

But… was he? Could he be? Was that really the reason he came round the shop so often? Was that why he was so frequently underfoot and in her face? Did he still love her, after all that time apart and everything that had happened between them? 

Suddenly, things began making a weird sort of sense. There was the way he always seemed to be looking at her when he thought she didn’t notice, studying her as she unpacked crates of new merchandise and put it out for display, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she totted up the day’s receipts… She’d gone up a ladder one day to reach a high shelf and had nearly taken a spill when the ladder had wobbled. He’d happened to be there and came to hold the ladder steady and help her down. There had been a momentary flicker in his eyes as they met hers, a fleeting ghost of something, and then she’d shaken herself off, thanking him brusquely for his help. 

The nonsensical suggestions for improvements he made that were based on nothing substantive… she’d thought them silly and truly galling at the time, all those seemingly endless, sniping comments aimed at getting under her skin just for the sake of annoying her and making her life difficult. Suddenly, she remembered something she’d always heard, growing up, about boys who pick on girls they secretly like because that’s the only way they know to communicate. Malfoy was long past such infantile behaviour, of course. But in a way, a tactic like that would really be the only way left open to him now, at least in his mind, assuming Nott and the others were right and he really did want to get back with her. He’d made such a thorough and unmitigated arse of himself that merely being civil and expressing regret would likely get him nowhere with her. So he’d chosen a more cowardly but safer route – hence, his arrival in Glastonbury, his purchase of the building housing her shop, and his lingering presence in the shop when there was no good reason for him to be there. It all made sense now.

Gods, it must be true, then. Malfoy still loved her. 

A fluttering began in the pit of her stomach and spread up into her chest, where it threatened to spill from her mouth in a shout.

_He still loved her._

Bloody hell.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
It hadn’t been easy, but they’d done it.

Blaise smiled to himself, thinking about how well he and Theo had managed to pull the thing off. Of course, they’d had some help. Ginny had been surprisingly accommodating when they’d made the request for a bit of much-needed assistance. She’d even contributed to the plan in the way of a rather brilliant premise they could use. The idea was to bring together several disparate factions under one roof: he and Nott, of course, plus Potter, Weasley, and most importantly, Malfoy. 

The ostensible reason would be Quidditch – more specifically, the formation of a crack team to take the local championship away from the insufferably smug Hampstead Hellions. There had been a challenger some years earlier, but the team had fallen apart after several members dropped out. The latest had been Draco, whose participation had begun to wane once he’d moved to Glastonbury and then evaporated altogether when he’d left the country. Once he had gone, the remaining members, including Harry and Ron, hadn’t the heart to continue. The gaps in the talent had just been too wide, and the team had been dissolved.

Now, with the promise of recruitment of several new players and Draco’s return to England, there was reason to believe that the Lewisham Lightning Bolts could regroup and take back the title. How much of all this would actually happen was in some doubt. But Potter and Weasley were willing to play along, apparently (thanks to Ginny), and that was all that mattered. Blaise wondered with a grin just how much arm-twisting she’d had to do, both to her husband and even more so, to her brother, whose opinions on Hermione and Draco as a couple had never been exactly favourable.

Now, on a muggy Thursday evening five days after Ginny’s birthday party, Blaise and Theo waited impatiently for the others to arrive. The place of choice was, once again, the Scrying Glass, fast becoming the most popular watering hole in Wizarding London. Fifteen minutes until the appointed time for Malfoy’s arrival. 

Blaise was beginning to sweat just a tad. Where the fuck were Potter and Weasley? They should have been there by now. 

Theo had been reading his thoughts. Taking a long pull from his pint of ale, he frowned. “Not looking good, Zabini. We need to talk to Weasley and Potter before Malfoy gets here, make sure they know what to do. They’ll cock the whole thing up if they get here when he does.”

“Or after.” Blaise was feeling a bit deflated now, after the initial adrenalin rush he’d experienced upon arrival. 

“Or after, yeah. Even worse. I don’t trust that they’ll remember their bit.”

Blaise turned to give his friend a wry, sidelong grin. “D’you remember yours, then?”

Theo pulled himself up very straight and looked at Blaise, askance. “What d’you reckon I am, then, a complete tosser? ‘Course I remember. I’m not stupid.” He opened his mouth to continue, but just then, Harry and Ron arrived.

Stifling a sigh of relief, Blaise slid over in the wooden booth, making room for them to sit down. 

“Not cutting it too close, then, are you!” he muttered, pushing two full pint glasses in their direction. 

“Sorry,” Harry muttered. “Domestic issues.”

“Meaning my sister was being a bit of a cow about… well, never mind about what. We’re here now,” Ron said quickly. “Look, just so you know, I’m not keen on them getting back together. I reckon it was a really good day for Hermione when they broke up. But –”

“But?” Theo and Blaise answered in unison.

“ _But_ if it’ll make her happy in the end, I’m in. He better not mess her about again, though. If he does, I swear I’ll kill him.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Harry put in hastily. “Bit of hyperbole.”

“Hyper… what?” Ron turned to Harry with a quizzical expression.

“Never mind,” Harry laughed. “Let’s get on with this whilst we can, before Malfoy gets here.”

“Right.” Blaise leaned in, and then so did the other three, putting their heads together so they could talk quietly. “We’ll talk about the team, who’s available, try-outs, all that rubbish. Then, I’ll get Malfoy to leave the table along with me on some pretext. When we come back, you lot will be talking about Hermione and –”

“Yeah, yeah, we know the rest,” Ron snorted. “Secretly, she still fancies Malfoy, she’s heartbroken, never got over him, blah blah blah. Ugh.” He made a face. “Makes me sick.” 

The two ex-Slytherins snickered, and even Harry couldn’t resist a small grin. Then Blaise raised his glass and the others followed suit.

“To getting those two back together, even if it kills us!” he laughed.

“It’ll bloody well be the death of _me_ ,” Ron muttered into his glass, before taking a good slug and letting out a robust belch.

Precisely three minutes later, the last member of the party arrived. 

With a certain restraint borne of wariness, Draco nodded to the table at large and seated himself.

“Gentlemen,” he murmured, reaching for the pint glass that had been ordered for him. “Cheers.” Taking a fair-sized swallow, he sat back, gazing around the table at the four faces looking back at him expectantly.

“I assume,” he continued mildly, “there’s a good reason for this particular gathering. Care to tell me what it is?”

“Quidditch, old cock,” Theo put in quickly. “We want to get the Lighting Bolts back together again. Thought we’d take a stab at reforming the team. What d’you reckon?”

Apparently, the notion was a surprising one, because Draco sat back with raised eyebrows but said nothing for a long moment.

“Hell,” he began slowly, considering his words. “Didn’t see that one coming. You’re all in favour of this, are you?” He glanced around the table, judging everyone’s expression in turn. 

For their part, the other four all nodded avidly.

“Oh yeah,” Harry chimed in enthusiastically. “We’ve got a good shot at the title, I think, if we get started now.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly sceptical. “Assuming enough of the old lot are still around and willing. Are they?” 

“Enough, yeah,” Blaise replied quickly. “I’ve spoken to Carter, Beswick, and Gilson. They’re all on board.”

“Still need a few spare, though,” Harry added. “We’ve got eight of the original team as things stand now. I’d say another two or three would do it.”

“We’ll need to set a day for try-outs and then for practice as well. It’s been a while since we flew together.” Theo knocked back the remainder of his ale and then cast a brief, sideways glance at Blaise.

But Draco had turned to regard Ron, who’d remained silent up to that point, and all extraneous talk around the table died away. “Nothing to say, Weasley? You’re awfully quiet.”

A corner of Ron’s mouth quirked up in a lazy half grin and he gazed back at Draco, a hint of veiled challenge in his eyes. “Don’t mind me, Malfoy. Long day.” 

There was an uncomfortable silence for a long moment, and then Blaise felt a swift kick under the table. It was Theo, who fixed him with a “get on with it!” look. Blaise took the cue, getting to his feet with a low grunt. 

“Right, Malfoy,” he said briskly. “Have pity on the rest of us poor sods with thin wallets, and stand the next round, yeah? I’ll give you a hand.” 

Nodding and rolling his eyes, Draco pushed himself away from the table and followed Blaise to the bar. When they returned with a tray of full pint glasses, a lively discussion was underway at the table. Harry, Ron, and Theo seemed oblivious to anyone around them as they talked and gestured energetically. As Blaise and Draco approached, the names “Hermione” and “Malfoy” popped up in the conversation, and suddenly, it was clear that this was a discussion that might prove instructive and very interesting. Blaise made to approach the table, but Draco’s arm shot out in front of him, barring the way. ‘Good,’ Blaise thought. ‘They’ve got his attention.’

Clearly, the subject of the discussion wanted to hang back and listen where he couldn’t be seen, precisely the reaction Blaise had been hoping for. They waited several feet back from the booth where the others sat, obscured by a table of two rather large half giants enjoying their beer.

“Bollocks,” Harry was saying. “She’s not happy. I know her. She pretends as if she’s perfectly fine, but she’s not. You say you saw her recently, Theo?”

“We did, yeah. She was in a right strop about Malfoy being her new landlord.”

Laughter.

“I bet she was!” That was Ron. “Last thing she’d want, after what he did.”

“I dunno, Ron,” Harry said thoughtfully. “I think it might be exactly what she wants, really.”

Draco’s ears perked up now, and he took a small step forward, straining to hear.

“How’s that?” This was Theo.

“What the hell, Harry! That’s rubbish!” Ron scoffed, with a bark of incredulous laughter.

“No, it’s not. Not really. You and I both know she’s never really got over him, no matter what she says to the contrary. How often does he come up in conversation when Hermione’s around?”

Ron gave a derisive snort. “ _Too_ often!”

‘That’ll go over well,’ Blaise thought; he cast a quick glance at Draco, who was now gritting his teeth, a small muscle pulsing in his jaw.

There was an indistinct warning sound from Theo, and Ron cleared his throat sheepishly. “Sorry, Nott,” he muttered. “No offense intended.”

“You say too often, but that’s exactly my point,” Harry continued. “She talks about him all the time. True, it’s usually in terms that are less than flattering –”

“Yeah, as in she wishes he’d drop dead!” Ron snickered.

Harry rolled his eyes, his mouth twitching ever so slightly, but he contained the urge to laugh as well. “The fact is, he’s on her mind practically all the time. What does that tell you?”

“Sounds to me,” Theo chimed in just as Ron opened his mouth to reply, “as if she’s still got feelings for Malfoy.”

“Bollocks!” Ron again. “What part of ‘I hate Malfoy’ don’t you lot understand?”

“Ron.” Harry’s tone was patient and painstaking, though secretly, he was applauding Ron’s performance as foil. “What she says isn’t necessarily what she means. That’s how women are. If she really didn’t care anymore, we wouldn’t be hearing about him every time she opens her mouth. He’s obviously still under her skin. I’ve seen the look in her eyes when she thinks nobody notices. She goes all sad and wistful and stares off into space. I’d bet serious money she’s thinking about him and missing him.” 

“You know, when we saw her in Glastonbury, she couldn’t hide her concern when she thought he might be in trouble,” Theo put in. “I bet you’re right, Potter. Sounds like she still fancies him.”

“Right. And no matter how much she says that being single is what she wants, I’d say that’s a load of rubbish as well,” Harry concluded.

“Hah, yeah, Malfoy says the same.” Theo chuckled and reached for his drink. “He’s full of shit, and I think deep down, he knows it. So… you reckon she is still in love with him. Hmm.”

Harry nodded gravely. “I do, yeah. Couple of times, even, I’m pretty sure she was on the verge of actually telling me as well. But we were interrupted, and after that, the subject never came up again. I know her very well, though. Those feelings are still there. She’s just buried them very deep to save herself pain.”

Blaise glanced over at Draco, who stood stock still, barely even seeming to breathe, the muscle still pulsing in his jaw. It was evident that he was visibly upset and struggling to control it.

The conversation died back then, and a moment later, Theo’s head popped round the corner of the booth and he spotted Blaise and Draco.

“Oi! What took so long? A man could die of thirst by the time you lot showed up!”

“Patience, patience! Relief is here!” Blaise chuckled, setting down two of the full pint glasses. Leaning in, he slid one of them to Theo, caught his eye, grinned, and gave an almost imperceptible nod. The eavesdropped conversation had got the requisite job done spectacularly well, judging by the expression currently on Draco’s face.

In point of fact, he was looking even paler than usual and distinctly shell-shocked as well. But there was a peculiar light in his eyes, Blaise noted. It looked almost as if something were burning him up from the inside, something he was itching to act upon and couldn’t. Not yet, at least.

“Bloody hell.” 

The words were no more than a murmur, barely more than a whisper really, infused with awe and surprise. 

And then Draco smiled to himself, a faint and barely noticeable smile, and in that moment, Blaise knew exactly what his longtime friend was thinking. 

Blaise held back his own smile as he considered the events of the evening. And he knew that the endeavour had been a resounding success. A tiny, provocative bug had been planted in Malfoy’s ear. Now, it had only to morph into a thought that couldn’t be ignored and then into something that demanded decisive action. It was the green light Draco had needed, the requisite reason to make something happen. 

‘This gamble had better work,’ Blaise thought fervently. A lot was riding on it, including longstanding friendships on both sides. A thrill of nerves suddenly clutched at his stomach, but he gamely pushed the sensation away. 

Being wrong was simply not an option.  
  
  
  
  
  


TBC


	3. Chapter 3

It would be another hour and then some before opening time, but Hermione liked getting to the shop at least an hour ahead, if not earlier, to make sure everything was in place and spotless. There was the morning tea or coffee to get brewing, the small, tabletop fountains to start burbling soothingly, and the essential oils diffuser to do its work, scenting the air with something relaxing and inviting. Today she’d chosen a blend of lemon, peppermint, rosemary and sweet orange. Stopping for a moment while watering her pots of bright scarlet geraniums, she drew in a deep breath of the fragrant air, closed her eyes with the sheer pleasure of it, and smiled. 

A moment later, the bells above the shop door jangled jarringly; startled, she opened her eyes and found herself looking straight into a pair of cool grey ones that were all too familiar. Suddenly, she knew without asking that he’d been watching her before coming inside. The thought brought on a faint blush and she turned away, unwilling to let him see it.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” she asked brusquely, her back to him as she busied herself pinching off spent leaves from the potted flowers. “Or are you here to check up on me?”

“Now why would I do that?” Draco smiled pleasantly. “Looks to me as if you’re managing admirably. No,” he sighed, “I’ve come because I’ve a problem I wanted to discuss with you.”

Well. This was a new one. 

Turning, Hermione folded her arms and regarded him expectantly, an eyebrow raised. She couldn’t help being curious, but there was something else hanging in the air now as well.

 _Stay cool, Hermione._

“Oh really,” she remarked placidly.

Gods. Was it her imagination or was he looking at her even more intently that he’d done in past weeks? That traitorous blush was threatening again; she could feel her cheeks warming under his steady gaze.

“Yes, you see, one of my tenants… well, you know him, of course. It’s old Mr. Arquette.” Draco pointed towards the ceiling and rolled his eyes with a wry grin.

“What about him? He’s all right, isn’t he?” Sudden concern drew Hermione’s expression into a frown.

“Yeah, the old bugger’s fine. No worries about him. But his latest spell work has done rather a lot of damage to the floor and walls of his flat. He’s hardly got two Knuts to rub together, much less the funds to actually fix the damage.”

Hermione’s frown deepened. “Oh gosh. You’re not going to kick him out, are you? That would be awful! He’d have nowhere to go. It’s so sad. I don’t think he’s got any family, you know. I’ve never once seen anyone coming to visit him. It’s only ever been me.” 

Draco sighed, shaking his head in amusement. “Keep your shirt on, Granger. I wasn’t planning on giving him the boot. But I want him to leave off working those weird spells of his. His so-called ‘creativity’ is costing me a bundle in repairs. That’s where you come in, I hope.”

He leaned in close, leaning on the counter top, and now Hermione got a good whiff of that scent of his that had always driven her a bit mad. It was a lovely masculine scent, clean and fresh and just slightly spicy. Without even thinking, she breathed a bit more deeply before recovering herself, embarrassed, and stepping back.

“I… uh…” she began. Her cheeks were on fire now. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well,” he replied, “I was rather hoping you’d have a word with the old man. He hasn’t listened to me. Make him see reason. He’s always had a soft spot for you. The daughter he never had and all that rubbish. Will you do it?”

Hermione thought for a moment. It was noteworthy, Malfoy coming to her rather than just handling the situation on his own. He’d never have done that in the past. Of course, in the past, he hadn’t been her landlord. He hadn’t been anyone’s landlord until now, to the best of her knowledge. This was most likely the best means to an end; he knew she’d have a good shot at getting old Mr. Arquette to do what he wanted. On the other hand, just maybe there were one or two empathetic bones in his body after all, and this show of restraint was evidence of a surprising well of compassion. 

Now she nodded. “All right. I’ll try. But you must promise me you won’t evict him, no matter what. I don’t want to be part of putting that sweet old man out on the street.”

Malfoy was still very close, and now he flashed her a rakish grin. “Tell you what, Granger. I’ll come collect you at closing time and we can go somewhere to discuss this further.”

Closing time was six pm. That was also –

“Dinner. Are you free?” Without waiting to find out, he carried on as Hermione gaped at him. “Dinner, Granger? You know,” he teased. “The meal that civilised people eat in the evening. Forks, knives, spoons, linen napkins, good food, glasses of something suitably alcoholic.” He paused and fixed her with his gaze, and suddenly, there was a feeling she remembered from the past, familiar despite the time apart, a terrifying yet exhilarating sensation of falling through space without the assurance that solid ground would be there to catch her. 

A part of her wanted desperately to pull away, to do it now before anything further happened. Going to dinner with Malfoy would be sticking an experimental toe into the water. And inevitably, one toe would lead to both feet and then to a full-body plunge. But then another voice in her head spoke up. _He still loves you, Hermione. He hasn’t said it, but then, he wouldn’t. Not so soon. But he’s here._ The question was, did she want him to be? Were her friends right? _Was_ she secretly glad he’d come back into her life?

Hermione Granger was nothing if not forthright and brave, and she’d be damned if she had to admit she was too scared to explore such a fundamental question. Right, then. No acting like a frightened little rabbit. Her chin went up, and head high, she nodded.

“Six o’clock, Malfoy,” she told him briskly. “Don’t be late.”

That charming smile was just as dazzling as she remembered. He gave her a jaunty little salute and strode out of the shop. As soon as the door closed behind him, Hermione sagged against the counter, feeling weak in the knees.

_Oh Merlin. What have I just done?_  
  
  


*

  
  
  
The inner monologue, as Draco walked off down the winding street, went like this:

_Bloody hell. What’ve I just done?_

_Took the first step, didn’t I. That’s what. Get a grip._

_What if they’re wrong, though? What if all that was just a load of crap and she really doesn’t want anything more to do with me?_

_Then it’ll go no further, and I’ll end up making a first-class arse out of myself. Hang on, though. She didn’t exactly throw me out on my ear, did she. That’s a good sign._

_And that blush of hers. Merlin, she is so fucking cute and sexy when she does that. That blush was for me, no question, whether she wants to admit it or not. So Nott and Potter must be right._

_And holy shit, she went for the idea of helping old man Arquette as well._ He chuckled to himself. _If I know Granger, she won’t be able to stop at just conveying my message. She’ll feel compelled to help him in some way. And I’ll pop round once in a while, see how the old man is getting on. She’ll be there quite a lot, no doubt. Do-gooder and mother hen._ He couldn’t help chuckling. Those were rather endearing traits, when they weren’t being a pain in the arse.

Smiling to himself, Draco made his way down the street, hardly even noticing where he was going, so caught up in thoughts that had suddenly turned significantly more pleasant and hopeful than those that had filled his head almost daily for the past number of weeks since he’d come back to Glastonbury. Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Merlin’s beard. Where would he take her for dinner? He’d be collecting her in a mere seven hours. A decision had to be made as soon as possible! The question was, with so many eateries in Glastonbury, what sort of atmosphere would be right? Nothing too romantic or cheesy, because that would be grossly lacking in subtlety. Must maintain one’s reputation for the requisite finesse. Not too casual either, though. Definitely not a bar scene. Music, if there were any, should be background only. There should be, he decided, a relaxed ambience, wonderful food and drink, fairly quiet but not dead, definitely nothing touristy, just a soothing and appealing environment where they could relax and unwind. Because that was precisely how he wanted her: relaxed as all hell and letting go: of inhibitions, certainly, but even more, of old anger, bitterness, and the laundry list of resentments she’d harboured for the past year. The place had to be perfect.

He needed her to begin to see him differently, if he ever expected to win her back. Because after learning that she still had feelings for him, he’d decided that this was what he wanted more than anything. And now, for the first time, it actually seemed possible. Winning her back was a tall order, though, and he knew it. That laundry list was rather formidable, and being honest, he knew she had every right to feel each one of those resentments quite keenly.

‘But does she still?’ he wondered. ‘What if she can never get past all the shit between us?’

 _Shut it, Malfoy. What are your choices, then, eh? Only two. Either you go for it or you don’t, in which case you can say goodbye forever to Granger being in your life. At this point, what the fuck have you got to lose? And don’t forget, she does love you. Even Potter said as much, so it must be true. You’ve a bloody good shot at being forgiven if you handle it right._

Suddenly, he knew precisely where he wanted to take her. How had he not thought of this before? Grinning, he turned on his heel and set off in the opposite direction, back towards the Covenstead and the pleasures of a long, relaxing soak in the tub. But first, he’d book a table and arrange for the meal. He knew the owner/chef personally. This would be a very special dinner, something unforgettable.

Draco Malfoy wasn’t a whistler as a rule, but this moment found him whistling cheerfully as he strode along, suddenly energised. Six pm couldn’t come soon enough.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
At three minutes before six, Hermione stood before the mirror in the small loo at the back of the shop, patting at her hair mechanically. Nervous flutters curled and twined relentlessly in her midsection, making her feel almost ill with apprehension.

‘Why are you so bloody nervous?’ she chided herself, rolling her eyes and heaving a deep sigh that did nothing at all to alleviate the flutters. ‘It’s just Malfoy. He broke your heart, remember?’ her inner voice continued archly. ‘Yes, but…’ another voice protested, small but insistent and growing louder inside her head. ‘He still fancies me. Everyone said so.’

‘So what? He’ll break your heart again if you let him,’ Voice #1 warned ominously.

Her less sensible self had a ready comeback. ‘Not if I’m careful. Not if I’m smart about things. I’m not naïve this time round. It’s different.’

‘Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Voice #1 muttered. 

With that, she drew in a deep, calming breath, pressed her lips together to set her freshly applied lip colour, turned on her heel and marched out of the loo.

Malfoy was standing just inside the door of the shop, waiting for her with the cheeky grin she knew intimately. But this time, she was less than sure what was behind that grin. Was he expressing a sense of assumed triumph because she’d agreed to have dinner with him? Or was it just that he was pleased to see her? Maybe even that he thought she looked particularly nice? (After all, she _had_ taken special care, just now, with her makeup and hair – to the degree that her hair would allow it, that is – and she’d even changed her earrings to a pair she’d just got in that morning, part of a shipment of new stock from a really talented jewellery maker whose style was primitive and a bit funky, not Hermione’s usual look but one she was growing to like very much indeed.)

Trying to gauge Malfoy’s often mercurial moods was about as useful as trying to collect a gallon of rainwater in a thimble. Best not to think about it one way or the other. ‘Just go with the flow,’ Less Sensible Hermione told herself. ‘Be open to whatever happens tonight.’

‘Bad idea,’ More Sensible Hermione sang out, refusing to be stifled. ‘Just keep your wits about you. That’s all.’

“Ready to go?” Draco’s question cut into her distracting internal dialogue. Hermione’s gaze snapped sharply back to him.

“Yes, all right,” she replied, nodding and gesturing to him to lead the way outside. Once there, she turned back, murmuring “ _Colloportus!_ ”

“Very smooth, Granger.” Raising an eyebrow just a tad in surprise, Draco nodded his approval. “You didn’t used to be able to do that quite so easily, as I recall.”

“You actually remember. I’m touched,” Hermione observed tartly, feeling a momentary return of the old chagrin that he’d been able to master wandless magic sooner and more effortlessly than she had. “So where are you taking me, then?”

Now Draco’s smile grew positively smug. “Patience. You’ll like it, no worries.”

“Am I dressed appropriately?” That morning, she’d chosen a calf-length, slim summer frock in a floaty, floral print, paired with a favourite pair of boots. The new earrings, long and dangly in beaten silver and studded with bits of turquoise, picked up one of the colours in the frock beautifully. The matching bracelet, delicate and glinting silver on her tanned wrist, completed the look. Perfect for the relaxed, New Age-y ambience of Glastonbury and its denizens and visitors, but would it do for wherever he was taking her for dinner? “Because if it’s a really posh place –”

“Relax. It’s casual. You look great,” he reassured her, reaching without thinking to thread her arm through his. And then very abruptly, he stopped himself, putting a bit more distance between them again. 

Why had he done that? Had her friends read the signals completely wrong? Was she expecting something from him that wasn’t actually there? Maybe her sceptical side had been right after all. At the very least, he was clearly uncertain of his own feelings, pulling back like that. Or perhaps it was as simple as the fear of his gesture being rejected. He'd certainly have good reason to be afraid of that, she realised. Whatever it was, it underscored how shaky the whole idea of this evening had been, what a mistake she'd made to agree to it in the first place.

Looking straight ahead to mask the disappointment that had surfaced against her own better judgment, Hermione picked up her pace, missing the momentary ambivalence clouding Draco’s eyes.

Walking without little to no conversation was not exactly comfortable, and Hermione was feeling once again that she’d made a huge mistake in agreeing to this dinner with Malfoy. 

“Are we nearly there?” she asked finally, feeling rather like a five-year-old questioning a parent. 

Now Draco cast a sidelong glance in her direction and chuckled. “Just another minute or two. Hungry?”

“Starved, actually.” 

“Good. Still like seafood, I hope?”

She nodded. 

“Excellent.” Draco paused and held out a restraining hand, palm up and pointing in the direction of the nearest storefront. “Right, then. We’re here.”

Before them was a small-ish establishment, its generously sized picture windows framed in royal blue, and its door sporting a most unusual silver knocker in the shape of a bundle of herbs. The name on the awning above was Estragon.

‘Tarragon,’ Hermione translated silently. ‘Interesting.’ “French?” she now asked.

Draco nodded, reaching to hold the door for her, and then ushering her inside the cool, dim interior. “ _Oui._ Fresh-caught seafood is their specialty. It’s actually fairly new. I only just discovered it myself recently.”

And now Hermione remembered reading about its opening in one of the local papers. It had received high marks for both its cuisine and the décor. Suddenly, the evening was looking a bit brighter, even if only from a gastronomic standpoint. There was a good chance she’d have a wonderful meal, if nothing else. That was something, anyway.

The interior was awash in the glow of candlelight everywhere, – in wall scones, in tall, cast-iron candlesticks on the individual tables, and in a myriad of tea lights along the length of the bar and on every shelf. The walls were painted a creamy white, there were skylights overhead, and the tables, bar, and flooring were made of a warm, honeyed wood. Altogether, the atmosphere was welcoming, enveloping diners in a soothing bubble of comfort and relaxation.

Beyond the tables, at the far end of the room, there were groupings of sofas, where diners could enjoy their drinks and starters before being seated for their main course. That was where Draco steered Hermione now. They took their seats on a generously sized leather sofa already occupied at one end by another couple. The space at the other end was enough for the two of them, but only just. The warmth and firm press of Draco’s thigh against hers was absolutely not distracting, not in the least.

“The server will take our dinner order here,” he told her. “What will you have to drink? Your usual?”

Hermione couldn’t help feeling a small, bittersweet pang then. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do.” His grin was unabashedly cocky. “Raspberry Limoncello Prosecco. Right?”

He really had remembered. Pleased despite herself, Hermione smiled. “Yes, that’s right. I’d love one.”

Picking up a menu, Draco busied himself studying it. “I’ll have the same. Now, will you allow me to order? I believe I know what you like.” Glancing up from the menu, he paused.

Why not? This whole evening was his idea, and he did know the menu from previous meals. It would cost her nothing to enjoy some wonderful food and listen to his thoughts about old Mr. Arquette. Even if Luna, Padma, Lavender, and Ginny had been wrong about Malfoy’s feelings for her. Even if those feelings were now entirely platonic after a year apart. Even if…

Just then, the waitress materialised, and she gave them both a friendly smile. She definitely seemed to recognise Draco.

‘Hello, nice to see you again! What can I get you both?” she asked. “Drinks to start?”

“Hello, Maggie. Two Raspberry Limoncello Prosecco cocktails, please. And for starters… the smoked salmon and crab with the horseradish crème fraiche.” He glanced over at Hermione for her approval. She nodded, her mouth starting to water.

“And then, for mains, let’s see… an order of the scallops with cucumber in champagne butter sauce, and one of the roast fillet of turbot.”

The meal sounded heavenly. Hermione hoped the food itself would be as amazing as the delectable descriptions on the menu.

As if he’d read her thoughts, Draco grinned infectiously. “The food is really amazing here. You won’t be disappointed, trust me.”

“I do tr –” she began, and then realised the irony of those words she’d been about to toss off so casually. Trust was at the heart of everything, wasn’t it… _Did_ she trust him now? _Could_ she?

“So,” she began again brightly, shaking off those troubling thoughts with some effort. “You want me to talk to Mr. Arquette.”

“Yes,” Draco replied, looking up as their drinks arrived and then raising his glass. “Cheers,” he said, lightly touching the rim of his glass to hers. “To success.”

“That, I think, depends on how one defines the term,” she replied archly, taking a sip of her own drink and then leaning back on the sofa cushions to savour the refreshing fruitiness of the cocktail. Success of what sort and by what (or whose) definition? That remained to be seen.

“Look, you know as well as I do that his magic is really fairly dodgy at this point,” he went on. “He can’t cast a proper spell to save his life. There’ve been too many accidents. Surely you're aware of this. Your flat is right across the hall.”

It was true. Hermione had lost track of the number of times she’d rushed over in the middle of the night when a particularly loud and scary-sounding explosion had shocked her out of a sound sleep. It had been funny at first – she remembered laughing with Draco, both of them ducking under the covers to muffle the sound, when such a bang would happen – but that was when the accidents had still been small and innocuous. Lately, they’d been bigger and far more dangerous-sounding. And his penchant for working spells in the wee hours was especially troubling, as everyone around him was generally sound asleep by then and reaction times were far slower.

“One of these days, he’s going to blow up the whole building, including your flat and the shop! Something has to be done. I’ve had complaints from other tenants. They want some sort of satisfaction. Most of them want him out.”

““Oh, but you won’t do that, will you?” Hermione turned from her drink to stare at Draco. “You did promise!”

"I didn’t, actually, if you think back. But even if I had done, such a promise would’ve depended to a degree on you finding a way to curb our Guy Fawkes pensioner and his pyro tendencies.” Draco took a bite of the smoked salmon from their shared plate. “Mmm. Excellent.”

Now Hermione was genuinely incensed. It had all been a trap, a trick, to get her to come out with him. So much for promises, spoken or implied. “I should’ve expected something slimy and underhanded from you! It’s so typical! You know very well that I wouldn't have come tonight if I'd thought you were lying."

"Not lying," he cut in, chewing and swallowing a bite of crab.

"All right, not 'lying,' exactly, but not being completely straightforward either." Huffing impatiently, she crossed her arms. "You led me to believe that under no circumstances would you evict Mr. Arquette."

He shook his head at that. "Your interpretation, Granger. Not my words. If you recall, what I said was, I had no intention of doing that. It doesn't mean that circumstances might not force me to, whether I want to or not."

"Oh. I see. We're playing word games now, are we? I should have just said no, that I wouldn't help. Where’s your heart, Malfoy? I’ve wondered for the last year if you even had one. I think I’ve got my answer now. And… and… stop enjoying that bloody salmon so much!”

His mouth twitched as he managed to stifle a laugh. Then he sat forward, suddenly quite serious. “Think about it. It can only do Arquette good if you try talking some sense into him. If you do, there's a chance – a good chance, I think – that you'll succeed and we can get this situation under control. If you refuse, we're back to square one and I've still got a big problem and unhappy tenants who will continue to complain. Eventually, the decision might be taken out of my hands completely, and you know it. So, as I see it ..." Now Draco sat back with a smile and a light shrug. "... the future of a lonely old man depends entirely on you. I know you can do it." The grin became wider and he gestured with his fork. "Go on, have a bite of the salmon. You know you want to. It’s sublime.”

Was Malfoy joking? Quietly seething, Hermione stuck her fork into the fish, thoughts of the elderly wizard and his uncertain future crowding out everything else. 

The meal progressed, despite the fact that for Hermione, Mr. Arquette had now become the elephant in the room. Watching her, Draco was well aware of how quiet and withdrawn she'd become, but he let her be. At last, however, the time came to think about some sort of sweet for afters. As Hermione reached for the menu to consider her options, he plucked it out of her hand with a proprietary shake of his head.

“Look, Granger, there’s really no reason to be so upset. And anyway, I have complete faith in you. You’ll bring Arquette round, I’m sure of it. Now. What about something for afters? You’ve trusted me this far. Let me choose for you. I know what you like.”

“Oh yes?" Much of her anger had subsided to a low boil by now, but she was still tempted to slap that smile right off his smug, handsome face. “What I’d like is to at least have a look at what’s on offer,” she retorted, snatching the menu back and running her gaze down the selections. “Tell you what, Malfoy. I’ll make my choice but keep it to myself. Let’s see if you know me as well as you think you still do.”

“All right," he agreed, adding, "Care to put your money where your mouth is? A small wager to make things more interesting?”

“Perfect. But not with money." A brilliant idea had just occurred and she smiled triumphantly at him. "If you get it wrong, you must promise that Mr. Arquette is safe from eviction, no matter what. If you get it right, well… we’ll just have to see about that. But you won’t,” she added airily, laughing. She was certain the bet was a safe one and feeling hugely pleased with herself.

“Right, then. I’ll just jot down my answer, shall I? ” Draco frowned a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration as he studied the choices and then quickly wrote something on a corner of his napkin. “I bet you’ll choose…” He paused again. “The tarte du jour with ice cream. And a glass of mint tea, iced. Am I right?”

“Hah! No!” she crowed in triumph. “Absolutely wrong, right down the line. I plan to order the berries in Grand Marnier with a scoop of strawberry sorbet and an iced cappuccino. So there! Mr. Arquette is absolutely safe!”

Draco sat back, a faint, enigmatic smile playing about his lips. A long moment of silence hung between them and then he spoke at last. “He always has been, Granger. His spell-casting _has_ resulted in a few scattered complaints, but nothing I've lost sleep over. He doesn’t even pay rent. He doesn’t have to anymore. I’ve not taken a single Knut from him in all the time I’ve owned the building.” 

Hermione stared at him, dumbfounded. 

“Nothing to say for once? This has to be a first,” he said quietly, grinning. “And for your information, I knew what your choices would be all along. I even wrote them down before I told you my guesses. Look.” He pushed his napkin towards her and she looked at it quickly. There, in black and white, were the words, “berries and sorbet, capp.”

Such un-Malfoy-like behaviour was becoming more confusing by the moment. “So you got it wrong on purpose,” she said softly. “You let me win. And it never really mattered at all, did it, whether I succeeded with Mr. Arquette or not. Why the deception?”

“To get you involved, so that over time, I'd have the chance to see more of you and show you something. About me,” he answered, looking away. He seemed distinctly uneasy now, yet he pressed on. “That I’ve changed. I don’t have to win all the time. Not with you, anyway. And I _can_ show kindness to somebody who can’t help himself. Old man Arquette was a highly respected wizard in his prime. Important Ministry position, the lot. We’ll all get old someday. I’d like to think somebody will give me the time of day when I'm feeble or just not very clever with spells anymore. I just... I reckon I couldn't wait for it to play out on its own. I wanted you to know now.” 

“So…” Hermione murmured, gazing at Draco with a sort of wonderment as the totality of what he’d just confided finally sank in. “You’ve really been the son he never had, haven’t you… You’ve taken care of him.” _And you wanted me to see this side of you. You needed me to see it._ “All this time?”

Draco nodded, his grey eyes calm and his gaze unflinching. “All this time.”

A few moments passed in a weighty, awkward silence. Hermione's mind was racing now, as she tried to assimilate what had just happened and Malfoy's unexpected confession. Then thoughts of old Mr. Arquette's situation returned, and relieved, she grabbed onto them, considering for a moment and then brightening as an idea occurred. “What about the Home for Aged Wizards? Surely he’d enjoy living there with his peers. And he wouldn’t have to worry about looking after himself the way he does here.”

Draco shook his head. “Not an option. He doesn’t have any family to speak of. You were right about that. So some time ago, I offered to get him set up there, but he refused. He’s lived in Glastonbury – in that very flat, mind! – for so long, he can’t imagine being anywhere else. I think it would really destroy him. My father… well, let's just say I wish he’d been shown a bit more compassion after the war. Those years made him old before his time, you know. He hasn’t been quite the same ever since. But we’ve got resources. Arquette hasn’t. So –”

Just then, the waitress appeared, ready to take their dessert order. 

“Tarte du jour with vanilla ice cream,” Hermione piped up before Draco had a chance to speak. “And a glass of iced tea. Mint, if you please.”

And then she cast a quick, sidelong glance at Draco. He was smiling, pleased at her words and what he knew they really conveyed.

“I’ll have the berries in Grand Marnier sauce with sorbet. Make that two iced teas. We can share,” he told Hermione, with a wink. 

At this, Hermione sat back, a tiny dart of remembered pain surfacing to prick at her. “You were never much good at sharing before," she reminded him pointedly. "Except yourself. You shared yourself entirely too freely.” Her tone was mild enough, and there was even a faint smile on her face, but she’d crossed a line, taking them into forbidden terrain, and there was no going back now. She'd been unable to help herself. It had to be said.

Curiously, Draco seemed unfazed by the conversation’s turn. He merely shrugged, expelling a wistful sigh.

“I did. It’s true. And I can’t take it back, much as I’d like to and wish I could do. I regret it – all of it – more than I can say. There is only one woman I want to share myself with now, if she'll have me.” He looked at her now, quite directly. “I’ve missed you, Hermione. More than you can possibly know.”

“Is that why you bought the building? Why you’ve made a pest of yourself in the shop?”

“Have I been such a pest, then?” Draco asked, looking suddenly very like a naughty little boy caught in the act. “S’pose I have. Sorry.”

 _Sorry._ Those words and the sentiment behind them were new, coming from him. He’d never bothered to utter even a false apology when they broke up. He hadn’t been sorry then, only relieved to extricate himself from a relationship that had become serious far more quickly than he’d expected. 

_Sorry._

"I'm sorry too," Hermione said in a small voice.

"What for?" Draco looked genuinely surprised at this. He waited for her to continue.

"I was wrong about you. You do have a heart, a much bigger one than I ever realised. I shouldn't have said –"

Reaching across the table, he rested his hand on hers and looked at her intently. "Stop. You had every right to think the way you did. I deserved you saying that. It took being away for so long for me to grow the hell up finally, I think. And then coming back to England... coming back here... I knew what I wanted. I just didn't know quite how to go about it."

"So that's when Mr. Arquette came into the picture," she mused. 

He nodded. "And I really do want you to talk to him, try to help him. I was telling the truth when I said he wouldn't listen to me. But maybe together we can persuade him that his spell-casting days are over."

"Or maybe," Hermione said slowly, thinking aloud, "we could help him to practice more safely, teach him alternative spells that he can't botch." She turned a wide, pleased smile in Draco's direction and he grinned in return, giving her hand a quick squeeze. It was the outcome he'd hoped for most and never imagined he'd achieve so quickly and, more to the point, honestly.

Their sweets arrived then, and for a few minutes, they busied themselves with bites of delicious fruit tart topped with rich ice cream and mixed summer berries with cool, refreshing sorbet. Each reached over to spoon up bites of the other’s selection, and it seemed entirely natural, as if they’d been comfortably sharing food and other intimacies for years. In fact, both were lost in thought, scarcely even noticing what they were eating.

The waitress returned a few moments later, to check on the order. She grinned, watching them. “Special occasion, loves? Anniversary, maybe?”

Draco and Hermione looked up at her, then at each other. In truth, the answer was far more complex than the waitress would ever have bargained for.

“Something like that,” Hermione murmured. And just maybe it was the beginning of a truth, one that was a long way from fruition, but a start nevertheless. Today was the first baby step. He loved her; she knew it now for sure. And somehow, inexplicably, she sensed that she could trust him this time. Whether her intuition was correct and where things would go in the end, she had no clue just yet. But she wanted to find out.

“Nice to see you here with a date for once,” the waitress remarked, giving Draco a friendly wink as she handed him the bill. “I –”

“Yes, thanks very much, Maggie,” he interrupted hastily, pushing some money at her. 

When she was gone, Hermione sat back, incredulous. “I’m the first woman you’ve brought here? Is that true? Oh dear, Malfoy, you’ve lost your touch!”

He laughed out loud then. “Sad, isn’t it. Reckon I have done. It’s all your fault, you know. You’ve spoilt me for anyone else.” 

“As long as it stays that way,” she instructed him firmly. And then, leaning over, she did something she’d secretly wanted to do ever since he first set foot in Food for Thought again. She needed him to know something as well: that what he felt for her was mutual. The kiss she gave him was long, deep, tender, and oh, so warm, his taste and scent intoxicating her, filling her until she could hardly see straight. 

“Cow,” Draco murmured fondly, smiling, and then he pulled her even closer, kissing her hungrily. Hermione needn’t have worried about whether he’d got the message. His brain was well on the way to becoming utterly dysfunctional in the face of such a delicious assault on his senses, but one thought remained sharp and clear, the one that counted most. 

She still loved him too.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Five months later  
  
  
“So much for vowing to stay single forever,” Blaise remarked complacently, hoisting a pint of dark ale and taking a first swig.

“Must admit, you were right all along, old cock.” Theo knocked back a couple of swallows of his own ale and grinned. They’d been at the pub for some time already, waiting for the other conspirators to arrive, and were already on their second round. “All that talk of his was crap. Mister ‘Never-Getting-Married’ Malfoy. Hah!”

“Reckon we’ll be getting an invitation to a big ‘do any time now,” Blaise continued, laughing. “You know the Malfoys. No expense spared.”

“Hello.” Ginny’s ginger head popped around the booth, followed by Luna’s. “What’s up? Why’d you Owl us?” 

‘Evidently,’ Blaise thought to himself, ‘Hermione is even better than Draco at keeping things close to the vest.’ 

Ginny paused, took a good look at the duplicate grins on Theo and Blaise, and then her eyes widened. “ _What?_ ”

“Have a seat, ladies,” Blaise drawled. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. This was big news, and he wanted to draw out the suspense for as long as he could. He’d wait until everybody had arrived. The night was still young.  
  
  
  
  
  


FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Tremendous thanks, as ever, to my good friend and peerless beta, mister_otter! Whatever would I do without your keen eye and ear and spot-on judgment? *hugs, Carol!*
> 
> About Beatrice and Benedick: They have an inferred history, possibly a rocky one. At the start of "Much Ado," they haven’t seen each other in some time, but circumstances have now thrown them together again. Both have vowed to stay unattached, rejecting all notions of love and commitment. However, their friends know better and devise a clever scheme to get them to confront and then admit their true feelings for each other. The play is full of love, laughter, and a fair bit of subterfuge, liberally seasoned with sharp banter between our erstwhile lovers.
> 
> The Covenstead is a real bed and breakfast establishment in Glastonbury, and it is very witchy and magical indeed. 
> 
> "It's as if they've distilled the wacky essence of Glastonbury and poured it all over this weirdly wonderful B&B. The downstairs is a riot of oddities: mock skeletons, witches hats, upcycled antlers and draped python skins. Bedroom themes range from fairy via green man and Gothic to Halloween honeymoon. A tad crazy, yes, but also delightfully done."
> 
> From Lonely Planet, https://www.lonelyplanet.com/england/glastonbury/hotels/the-covenstead/a/lod/5f954ce9-7eb3-47a5-825c-3a3f554faee1/359028
> 
> See also https://www.booking.com/hotel/gb/the-covenstead.html (the second photo in the slideshow was the inspiration for Draco's rooms.)
> 
> Here are several selections from the Bill Douglas CDs that Hermione played in the shop. Enjoy!
> 
> "Diamond Dance" from Cantilena:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ar9pa2Q3rZg
> 
> "Wind of Delight," from Earth Prayer:  
> https://www.shazam.com/track/62202616/wind-of-delight
> 
> "The Veil of Stars," from Earth Prayer:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sNvKQ_1J3W0
> 
> "Spirit Dance," from Earth Prayer:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y6a2pe7qK1o


End file.
